


long before we both thought the same thing

by onlyeli



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ALSO me practising third person, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Cutesy, Early Mornings, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, One Shot, POV Third Person, Self-Indulgent, Wingman Mituna Captor, also me pushing my dirk and mituna as friends agenda, it started as me being self indulgent w dirk and mituna and then i couldnt NOT add jake, man, me practising writing things where no one is magic, not that hes any good at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeli/pseuds/onlyeli
Summary: Dirk wakes up early and goes for coffee, trying his damn hardest to dodge the obstacles in his way.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider, Mituna Captor & Dirk Strider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	long before we both thought the same thing

Waking up early on a Sunday is far from Dirk’s favourite thing to do. There are at least fifteen other things that rank higher on his hypothetical list, and getting a decent night’s sleep is one of them, probably because it’s far more elusive, and the world just loves to kick his ass every now and again. The cosmic wonder looking after planet Earth must decide that Dirk’s gotten a little too big for his boots on occasion and needs a good trouncing so he remembers his place. Luckily for Dirk, there’s a coffee shop not too far from his apartment, and they serve little cakes with their expressos before 10am. 

His coat is buttoned up wrong and his eyes are bleary behind his shades, but it doesn’t matter all that much at this time. Most of the other students are either still sleeping or suffering through their all-nighters, blinking in front of an essay they’ve resigned to turning in late. Only a few businessmen and early birds pass him in the street, and his expression is enough to ward them away. He’s perfected that miserable bastard downturn of his lip, partially thanks to the fact that he is, it has to be said, a miserable bastard. Clenching his jaw and staring straight ahead works when his general apathy doesn’t, nine times out of ten.

As usual, Dirk hears the exception to this rule before he sees him.

“Dirk!”

His nasally bark is far too close for comfort. Dirk sidesteps smartly just in time to watch a flurry of colour and motion whiz by him on a skateboard that shows absolutely no signs of stopping. The madman piloting the board is belting a cackle into the morning air, and if Dirk wasn’t awake before, he certainly is now. 

Mituna Captor has that effect on people.

Mituna had sunk his teeth into Dirk two years ago, and, much like a puppy with lockjaw, adamantly refused to let go. No matter Dirk’s insistence that he _Just isn’t much of a social dude._ or _Prefers to get shit done alone._ Mituna had hung on with both hands and a too-wide smile, eager and crude and loud. He speaks with all the grace of a piano with a lisp and a stutter falling from the top floor of a sixty storey building and dresses like a headache. 

Dirk cares for him fiercely, if reluctantly.

He jumps off of the still-moving skateboard as though he expects to hang in the air until the world stops with him. His board, riderless, careens into the (thankfully empty) street and bumps up against the opposite kerb. Mituna stumbles, arms windmilling in a way that would look staged to any outsider. Dirk knows better, though, and reaches out to close his fingers around Mituna’s wrist. It steadies him, and that toothy grin turns on Dirk full force. 

“Walk of shame?”

“Mornin’, Tuna,” Dirk says, not without a hint of impatience. He lets go of Mituna’s bony wrist and Mituna’s newfound freedom allows him to dart across the road and grab his board, which he slings over his shoulders for safekeeping. He falls into step beside Dirk, who had resumed his diligent trod almost the second he was able, and shouts that sandpaper laugh from a place in his throat that Dirk figures must get sore eventually.

“Come on! You’re telling me you didn’t get anything last night? I don’t mean to brag-”

“By which you mean, ‘Dirk, listen to all the kinky shit I got up to yesterday’.”

“Don’t interrupt,” says Mituna, the hint of a whine staining his tone. The look he gives Dirk, however, sideways and sharp, gives him away. “Where was I?”

“You’re full of shit,” Dirk says, rounding the corner of the street. After a little squinting - morning light does not mix well with the vaguely orange tint of his shades - he makes out the sign for the coffee shop and speeds up. “Stick to playing the ADHD stereotypes to Aranea.” 

Mituna swats at Dirk’s arm, and Dirk berates him for being childish until they get to the door of the coffee shop. Then, Mituna just so happens to trip over Dirk’s outstretched foot and stumble for a good ten paces before finally going down. Dirk bites back his smirk as Mituna curses him in ways never before heard by human ears, and, finally, lets himself into the warm and softly-lit oasis, the shining light on his morning from Hell. 

He gets two steps through the door before he spots the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

The man is alone and stood behind the counter and leaning on it with both elbows, his temple resting gently against the cash register. He’s been there for some time, as there are small red marks pressed into the otherwise dark skin of his hairline. His eyes are focussed and fantastically green, trained downward through his glasses at the phone he’s cradling in both hands as if it were a gift from the Heavens. As Dirk watches him, he sinks his protruding front teeth into the chapped curve of his bottom lip. All this guy is doing is existing in a space, but he’s so pretty that Dirk feels like a sick voyeur for eyeing him. 

Dirk immediately turns on his heel and reaches for the door handle. Unfortunately, caught up in the moment of walking into the stranger’s orbit, Dirk has forgotten about the small atom bomb in his back pocket.

“You’re a stupid asshole, I’ll shove my skateboard so fucking far up your-”

“Mituna,” Dirk says, no more animated than usual, but there’s a weight to him. Mituna freezes, mouth still open, and shakes his hair out of his eyes to slide them over Dirk’s shoulder and scan the room, its homely atmosphere, the collection of empty tables and framed sepia photographs. This is not unusual for them; Dirk, while not a master of social interaction, is certainly better at reading rooms than Mituna ever even hoped to be. When Mituna’s gaze finally comes to rest on the beautiful man, they go wide as saucers, and Dirk realises his mistake.

“Hey!” Mituna says, slipping past Dirk and marching up to the counter, open and friendly. He’s a little overzealous, but that’s just how he is. Dirk is comforted by the familiarity of Mituna striking up a conversation with whoever he damn well pleases, if only for a second. 

The man, who had looked up upon hearing Mituna’s slew of ass-related incendies, raises one of his hands in a bemused little wave. 

Dirk closes his eyes and inhales deeply before turning back to the counter, hand already in his pocket and closed around a ten dollar bill. He’s come this far, so he may as well seal the deal and get his coffee. He pretends to be very interested in the menu for a second, staring hard at the chalkboard above the small car crash that is inevitably going to take place once Mituna opens his mouth.

Dirk waits a beat, then two. When nothing happens, he starts to get worried. Mituna is never at a loss for words, especially when people he thinks are hot are concerned. He hadn’t disappeared or been struck down by a merciful bolt of lightning, because his garish yellow tracksuit is still almost neon in the corner of Dirk’s eye. Agonizingly slowly, Dirk peels his stare away from the worn lettering of the word ‘mocha’ - maybe he should get one for Dave - and glances Mituna’s way. 

Mituna is leaning hard on the counter, his entire chest flush against the faux-marble, his head craned awkwardly to get a look at the phone the man is holding. Dirk goes cold with embarrassment before he realises that the man has shifted to accommodate him. Somehow, in complete silence, they had managed to negotiate a position that, while no doubt uncomfortable for Mituna, allowed them both a clear view of the screen of this guy’s device.

“There’s no sound,” Mituna says after a minute or so, and it isn’t a question, but the way he tilts his head and lets all of his hair spill in a waterfall away from his eyes makes it seem like one.

“Well, no,” says the man, and Dirk almost recoils in sheer surprise. He’s British. Mituna actually does recoil, and bangs his knee on the counter as he does it. As he slides off of the counter and yowls a few more curses at the legs of one of the shiny red-top tables in his eyeline, Dirk steps forward, lips pressed together so hard they vanish into a thin, bloodless line. 

“Sorry about him,” Dirk says with a sigh and the air of someone who has apologised for Mituna more times than they care to remember. The man smiles crookedly, shrugs, and puts his phone in his pocket, not without a hint of reluctance. Dirk tries not to feel like he’s infringing, because all he did was want some coffee, for fuck’s sake. 

“That’s quite alright, chap. I appreciate anyone with the appropriate reverence for the silver screen!” He beams, good-natured all over. It takes a second for Dirk to look past his pleasantries and get to the root of Mituna’s issue. 

“You were watching a movie? Without sound?”

Mituna stands up and stretches, which makes his back crunch horrifically. Dirk and the barista both wince at the sound privately as he goes to sit down and nurse his bruised pride and his sore knee.

“I hardly need to, do I? When it’s a flick as classic and well-renowned as the one I was taking a peep at, it’s only natural one knows all the scenes by heart! Surely you’ve got a movie or two you can chant along with when you’re watching it.”

Admittedly, Dirk’s got a few favourites in his collection that he knows better than he’d care to admit. He returns the shrug. “I guess. What were you watching…?”

The barista, intentionally or not, completely misses the space Dirk leaves for him to introduce himself. Mituna snorts, and when Dirk bends his arm behind his back to subtly give him the finger, dissolves into hearty guffaws. 

“Oh, it’s simply fantastic. A sci-fi epic by the name of After Earth, starring Will Smith and his immensely talented son! Are you familiar with it?”

A silence descends on them. Even Mituna stops laughing. 

Dirk blinks. “That movie sucks.”

It just spills out of his mouth like the world’s shittiest waterslide. As soon as he says it he wants the god so intent on ruining his day to open a chasm in the floor and drop him straight through it. Just one moment of respite, that’s all he’s asking.

Mituna makes a small noise of sheer agony behind him. 

The barista cocks his head, eyebrows knitted in consideration. Dirk’s already drawing a map in his head to the second nearest coffee shop to his apartment and lamenting the loss of the little cakes before ten when the man’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he starts to laugh.

Dirk feels the corners of his mouth soften as the noise washes over him. It’s a pleasant sound, bright and bold and unafraid to be heard. A strong hand claps him on the shoulder. 

“A man with opinions! Alright then, what do you praise over my thrilling post-apocalyptic romp, hm?”

Dirk promptly forgets every movie he’s ever seen. “A man’s taste in cinema is a personal thing. At least ask my name first.”

The smile stays in the stranger’s eyes. “Well?”

“Dirk!” Mituna supplies, in what would appear to be assistance. His lopsided beartrap of a grin says otherwise. “He’s Dirk. Who are you?”

“Jake,” says the man, still looking Dirk’s way. “Jake English.”

“Alright, Jake English,” Dirk says, his face a mask of determination, his cheeks slightly warmer than they were before, “how about we all have a coffee, and then we can talk movies.”

“Hot chocolate for me,” Mituna calls, determined not to be forgotten as Dirk embarks on his homoerotic adventure. Jake finally shifts his smile over to him. Dirk finds himself missing it, and then he finds himself embarrassed.

“You know, Dirk,” he says, tightening the straps on his black and green apron and tapping the screen of the register into life, “I think I’d like that very much indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> dirk and mituna do be friends though... writing this has only rekindled my passion for an idea i had MONTHS ago so we'll see about that. this started as just the mituna and dirk scene but then i could not resist. not tying in mituna's quirk is HARD. comments are appreciated!!


End file.
